


along this path we walk together

by Anonymous



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: A3! Big Bang, Character Study, Crossdressing, Family Feels, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Break Up, Relationship Study, Reunions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 22:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30011895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It’s been four years since Banri left Japan without planning to return any time soon, and he’s perfectly fine with the way things are. But fate has a funny way of upending one’s best intentions, and when an acting job forces the one person he’s been trying to avoid thinking about back into his life, he comes to realize that even living on super ultra easy mode doesn’t mean he can keep running forever.(Or: sometimes, even if you take the roundabout path to finding it, the home you’re looking for is closer than you think.)
Relationships: Hyoudou Juuza/Settsu Banri
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22
Collections: A3! Big Bang 2021, Anonymous





	along this path we walk together

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll update this author’s note with more info after reveals are posted, but just a warning for everyone who’s not caught up on reading all the a3 jp stories: in this chapter, there are references to the Inner Palace and Fallen Blood events, as well as spoilers for the events that occur during Act 9 and 10 of the main story! It's not necessary to read them, though it does help in understanding some of the content discussed.

When Banri strolls into the airport terminal after stepping off his plane, backpack slung over one shoulder and peering at the throngs of people through dark-tinted sunglasses, the cacophony of noise that greets him is immediately overwhelming.

He expected it, considering it’s the height of the summer tourist season in Japan, but after his quiet flight it’s still jarring to wade through the thousands of people flocking the area, squinting up at the departure boards and running to catch their plane at the last minute. The smooth mechanical voice over the loudspeaker, barely audible over the din, announces a delay in various flights, and a kid bumps into Banri’s waist as they dart past, screeching in delight while their mother tosses a quick apology in Banri’s direction as she hurries after her child. In the distance, a baby starts wailing, the sound piercing through the clamor like a fire alarm that everyone proceeds to ignore.

But rather than grating on his ears, the outside noise is relieving. It’s overpowering the voice in his head telling him he shouldn't have taken this job, that he should’ve picked one of the other dozens of roles inviting him to an audition and stay in America instead of risking the comfortable equilibrium he’s carved out for himself over the past four years just because his agent thought the opportunity was too good to pass up.

If his past self could’ve seen him aboard that plane, swimming in self-doubt and second-guessing all his decisions, there’s no way he would’ve believed they were the same person.

Thankfully, the muted chatter surrounds him like a shield, helping to temporarily clear his mind and forcing him to focus on making his way through the crowd. His wealth of experience in flying internationally comes in handy, and in less than an hour he’s leaving the airport and stepping into the scorching summer heat. As he waits for an available taxi, Banri flips up the brim of his hat and fixes his ponytail until it’s not sticking to the back of his neck from sweat.

A high-pitched squeal of delight catches his attention, and he looks over in time to witness an older woman standing nearby run up to the car that’s just pulled up to the sidewalk. A group of people scramble out of the car and she gathers all of them into a hug, a radiant smile on her face even as she starts tearing up out of sheer emotion.

Banri clicks his tongue and averts his eyes from the display. How embarrassing. She couldn’t have waited the ten seconds it would take to get into the car and greet her friends, instead of instigating an overtly public reunion with the people who were apparently willing to indulge her in a scene worthy of a comedy film? They’ve attracted the attention of everyone within earshot of the woman’s voice, and yet no one in the group seems to care at all, completely absorbed in their own little bubble of joy. It’s disgusting. It’s a sight that should repulse him.

There’s no reason for disappointment and envy to curdle low in his stomach.

He resolutely turns his back on the group and flags down the next taxi he sees, sliding his backpack off his shoulders and climbing into the vehicle. Banri debates taking off his sunglasses, but he’s unsure if his rising popularity has reached Japanese news outlets, and the last thing he wants to deal with is the driver recognizing him and asking for an autograph for his sister or girlfriend or whoever the fuck Banri couldn’t care less about right now.

“Where to, sir?” the driver asks.

“Er…” Banri pulls out his phone. 7:27 A.M. His original plan was to check into the hotel room his agent booked for him before heading to rehearsal at 8, but he’d much rather haul his meagre belongings along with him than risk being late for the first rehearsal and leaving a poor impression on the director and the rest of the cast. “The Imperial Theatre, please.”

The drive takes less than twenty minutes, crossing through familiar scenery that Banri imagines should’ve left a bigger impression on him, considering it’s been so long since he’s last seen these stores and landmarks, but he just feels...bored. Like a book he’s read too many times to be surprised by the plot twists anymore. Chances are, apart from rehearsals and practicing on his own time, he won’t be going out much during his stay in Japan. He’d already resolved not to contact anyone here other than his sister, who’d bullied him into a promise to meet up with her and their parents at least once. Anyone from Mankai Company is definitely off-limits, considering the only person he’s somewhat kept in contact with is…

Banri thumbs open one of the multiple mobage games on his phone and opens his friends page, scrolling through the list until he finds taruchi’s profile. Even after he left the company, he and Itaru have consistently kept up their fierce ranking battles despite Banri’s falling out with everyone else, and they’ve even joined up in online raid parties together on the rare occasions they both had free time. The idea of texting Itaru and letting him know that he’s back is tempting. He trusts that Itaru, more than anyone, would understand his implicit desire not to let anyone else find out about his return, and he’s the least likely to make a big fuss about it, too. On Banri’s days off, if Itaru has the time, maybe they could even meet up and play a few co-op games together like they used to.

But - no. It’s not worth the risk. As good of a friend Itaru is, he’s still an actor of Mankai Company, and it’s always possible that, accidentally or not, he’d end up hinting about possessing a Banri-related secret and then getting the information blackmailed out of him by his roommate. And would Itaru even want to hear from him? Sure, they’ve managed to keep their gaming friendship alive, but that’s when an ocean separated them and Itaru probably believed they’d never see each other in person again. If Banri went to see him and Itaru tried to convince him to confront all the things Banri was determined to keep sealed away, he’d never forgive him, and that would be the end.

Damn it. This is exactly why he didn’t want to come back. His thoughts are scattered and distracted, and Banri can’t tell if he’s being rational or cautious or just plain paranoid. If there weren’t a million reasons why he couldn’t, he’d order the taxi driver to turn around and take him back to the airport so he can catch the next flight back to America.

Muttering a quiet swear, he exits out of the game and shoves his phone back in his pocket just as the taxi arrives at the Imperial Theatre. Banri thanks him with a generous tip and climbs out of the car before the driver can try to get a good look at his face, slinging his backpack over his shoulder again and crossing the expansive parking lot.

The theatre looms over him, surrounded by office buildings identical in appearance and sparse deciduous trees littered around the property. The kanji for _Teikoku Gekijou_ is embossed in silver-white bold font along the side of the building, catching the sun’s rays and reflecting the light right into Banri’s vision. He shades his eyes as he treads up the short flight of stairs and pulls open the theatre’s bronze doors, the hinges creaking loud enough to startle a pair of birds nearby into taking flight. Breathing in the musty air, he lets the doors swing shut behind him with an ominous clang.

Inside, he's directed by the receptionist to head to the largest practice room near the back of the building where the cast and crew are meeting, but Banri either misheard their directions or he’s been away from Japan for so long that he’s forgotten how to read the kanji on the direction signs, because he loses his way while wandering through the endless winding corridors and ends up in front of a pair of double doors marked _Auditorium_ that clearly don’t lead to the practice room.

He sighs, tamping down the urge to kick the doors in frustration. Well, assuming the layout of the building is similar to most theatres, he’s pretty sure that if he passes through the audience seats and cuts through backstage, there should be a hallway there somewhere that’ll take him to the right room. It’s definitely not the path he should be taking, since Banri’s not sure if he’s even allowed inside any of the auditoriums, but it’s better than waiting until he happens to find an employee and ask them for directions.

He’s about to push his way in when he stops, frowns, and presses his ear to the door. It's way too early for any matinee shows, and he doesn’t even remember seeing any signs or posters advertising shows apart from the one he’ll be performing in, so there shouldn’t be anyone inside at this moment - right?

But unmistakably, Banri can faintly hear a deep, powerful voice resonating throughout the auditorium. He can’t make out the words through the door, but whoever it is sounds like an experienced actor, the type who's used to projecting their voice in a way that leaves an impact on the audience and enchanting them until they’re hanging onto their every word. Spellbound, Banri’s hands move on its own before he can think and yank open the doors.

Normally, he’d spare a few moments to take in the grand sight of the stage, the sea of countless empty velvet red seats, the dazzlingly bright chandelier dripping crystals like raindrops and hanging down from the wide arched ceiling painted in streaks of gold, but Banri’s attention is immediately drawn to the lone actor standing in the centre of the stage. They’re tall, standing straight and proud as they read out lines from the script they’re holding in one hand and performing broad gestures with their other hand. Without the barrier of the door muffling his speech, Banri can appreciate the years of experience he can hear behind the strength of the actor’s voice, rattling him down to his bones. It’s captivating, in a way that Banri’s rarely felt even with all his time spent working with so many talented actors in the industry, and he finds himself paying close attention to the words they’re speaking.

“There is no question of postponing this task until tomorrow. Revolutionists should always be hurried; progress has no time to lose. Let us mistrust the unexpected. Let us not be caught unprepared. We must go over all the seams that we have made, and see whether they hold fast.”

Wait. Banri’s brow furrows, his mind flipping through the script he’d skimmed on the plane just a few hours earlier. Weren’t those lines from Les Misérables? The production _he_ was recruited to perform in?

He walks down a few steps, squinting at the actor who’s presumably his castmate, and stills.

It can’t be - no, there’s no fucking way. Coincidences like this don’t happen, not to him - not when everything in his life over the past four years has come so easily to him, to the point where he could almost laugh at how predictable everything has become. It must be karma, Banri thinks wildly, for the super ultra easy mode life he’s been enjoying until now, or - or maybe that person isn’t him? Just because this person has the same hair colour and style doesn’t necessarily mean it’s _him_ , he needs to get a closer look to make sure he’s not seeing things, make sure his entire plan to keep a low profile during this production hasn’t just gone up in flames -

Banri takes off down the stairs, staying low to avoid attracting the actor’s attention and his footsteps light enough to be masked by the plush carpeting. His head is spinning, the sound of the actor’s voice slowly being drowned out by the white noise buzzing in his head, and he’s so disoriented that he reaches the end far sooner than he expects, nearly stumbling right into the edge of the stage.

He catches himself just in time, bracing his weight against the stage for balance, and looks up. The actor’s back is facing him, their eyes fixed on the script as they stride across the stage. “I don’t know what has been the matter with them for some time past,” they intone, thrusting out a hand for emphasis. “They are becoming extinguished.”

From this close, Banri can’t deny the truth any longer. Everything about the actor is painfully familiar, and he’s seized with the desire to - what? Get up on stage and demand what the fuck they’re doing here? Run out of the theatre like a coward? Yell at the sky for torturing him like this?

He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t get the chance to find out, because the actor punctuates the end of their speech by abruptly turning on their heel, declaring "I have no one!" and lowering the script to gaze out beyond the stage.

Banri makes direct eye contact with Hyodo Juza, and the world around them falls deathly silent.

For several long seconds, or minutes, or hours, neither of them move. Hyodo's eyes are wide, jaw hanging slightly open in shock, and Banri has a quip about how stupid he looks sitting on the tip of his tongue, but his mouth refuses to cooperate. Every muscle in his body is frozen like he’s been abruptly doused in ice water, and every rational thought had fled his brain the instant he processed that it’s really Hyodo up there on stage. He looks exactly the same as he did the day Banri walked out of his life, and that fact brings up a complicated surge of emotions that has him curling his fists by his side like he can’t decide if he wants to grab Hyodo and pull him close, or punch him as hard as he can in the face.

From the dawning horror creeping across Hyodo’s face, he can assume that he’s put the pieces together about what Banri’s presence here must mean, and if it weren’t for his own dismay at the situation, he’d be sorely tempted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. The shock is wearing off, but the way Hyodo keeps staring at him like he’s a ghost that’s come back to life keeps him rooted to the spot as he returns Hyodo’s dumbfounded gaze as defiantly as he can. There's no way he's going to be the one to look away first.

Their impromptu game of freeze tag is finally broken when Hyodo moves, taking a step backwards, and his expression closes off with the finality of a camera shutter sliding shut. “What’re you doing here.”

“I should be the one askin’ you that,” Banri shoots back, satisfied with speaking now that he’s won. “Clearly you’re in the Les Misérables stage production too, so why’re you here and not in the practice room where we’re supposed to be?”

“...Got here too early,” says Hyodo, folding his script into a square. They were only sent the script a few days ago, but his copy’s already battered like he’s read it several dozen times. “Figured I’d practice a bit while waitin’ for everyone else to show up. And I didn’t mean why are you here in this theatre, I meant...why are you _here_? In Japan?”

Banri raises an eyebrow. “I’ve been cast in this production too. Is that not obvious, or did your brain leak out through your ears sometime during the past four years?”

“No, asshole, I know that. I meant -” Hyodo bites off the end of his sentence and turns away. “Forget it.”

An awkward silence settles between them. Banri watches as Hyodo tucks his script under one arm and heads to the right wing of the stage to retrieve his plastic bottle from the ground. He definitely does not watch Hyodo’s throat work as he swallows several gulps of water, wiping his mouth when he’s done and carefully placing the bottle back on the ground.

Banri drags his gaze back up to Hyodo’s face to find him staring curiously back at him, brows drawn together. “What?” he snaps.

“...Your hair. S’ longer.”

Glowering, he tugs on his ponytail until it’s off his shoulder and out of Hyodo’s line of sight. “Had to grow it out for a role, and never got around to cuttin’ it,” he mutters. “You, though - you haven't changed at all, huh?”

Actually, now that Banri’s looking at him properly, Hyodo looks like he might’ve grown a few centimetres taller. But that pisses him off, so he doesn't mention it.

Hyodo shrugs, which could mean _I didn’t see the need to_ or _I don’t care_ or _I did change but I don’t feel like telling you because I still hate your guts_. Banri rolls his eyes and hauls himself up on stage. Hyodo tenses as he approaches, but he ignores him and pulls the script from his arms without ceremony, flipping through it until he finds the lines Hyodo was reciting earlier.

“Hmm. So you _are_ playin’ Enjolras.”

“Yeah.” Hyodo cuts him a sideways glance. “You already memorized the whole script?”

“Well, yeah. That much was a piece of cake.” At the last second, Banri remembers to flash him a smirk. “S’ me, remember?”

Hyodo does not dignify him with an answer. “Which role d’you have?”

“Grantaire.”

“...We’ve got a lotta scenes together.”

“I know.” It’s been rolling around in the back of Banri’s mind since he recognized Hyodo’s lines and started suspecting which role he must’ve been cast in. “Shouldn’t be any trouble. We’re both professionals. Just 'cuz we've got... history together, doesn't mean we can't act on the same stage. I mean, we hated each other at first sight when we were seventeen, and Picaresque turned out fine."

“Hm,” says Hyodo, sounding completely unconvinced, and Banri can’t blame him.

Because yeah, their Picaresque performance had a successful run. But back then, the problem between him and Hyodo was that they genuinely hated each other, plain and simple. The only things they knew about each other was their surface personalities, which happened to clash in every conceivable manner possible, and that led to them fighting over pretty much everything until they wrangled their mutual hostility into a rivalry that spurred on their efforts to deliver Autumn Troupe’s best possible debut play.

It's different now. Now, he knows too much about Hyodo, and vice versa - he knows exactly which words to say to piss him off, which actions he could take to calm him down. Banri couldn’t erase the information from his brain, no matter how hard he tried. It’s likely the reason why they’ve managed to dredge up a facsimile of their usual banter despite the years that have passed since they’d last spoken, but it feels off, too forced, like they’re following an aged script that’s been poorly edited. Hyodo isn’t a stranger, and he sure as hell isn’t a friend, and Banri doesn’t even know if hates him as much as he’s supposed to.

“How’s Autumn Troupe doin’?” Banri asks, before Hyodo can start trying to pick apart his reasoning. “Actually, doesn’t Autumn usually do regional performances ‘round this time of year? How’d you find the time to join a major stage production like this - didja quit the troupe?”

Hyodo scowls. “‘Course not. I ain’t you.”

Banri laughs off the remark, and pretends it doesn’t sting. “Got that right. For one, I ain’t a daikon actor like you.”

“...You’d be surprised,” Hyodo says quietly. Before Banri can ask him what he means, he adds, “Autumn Troupe skipped regionals this year ‘cause Taichi and some of the other actors caught the flu, and Omi and Sakyo have been helpin’ to take care of ‘em. A friend of Director’s asked her if anyone from Mankai would be interested in auditionin’, and she thought I should give it a shot.”

“Heh, really? Woulda thought this sorta play would be more suited to the Winter Troupe’s members’ usual style.”

“Some of ‘em were interested, but they’d already booked a training camp abroad with Spring Troupe next week and it would’ve conflicted with their schedule. A couple of the younger members auditioned too, but only I got accepted for a role.”

“I see.” Banri chews on his lip, considering, before throwing out the question. “And Taichi and the others who’re sick? Are they okay?”

“...They’re fine. Most of ‘em are fully recovered. Taichi was the worst off but he’s doin’ well. He’d probably be better already if he didn’t keep tryna sneak out of bed to practice by himself.”

Banri can’t help the fond smile he can feel curling at the corner of his mouth. “Sounds like Taichi.”

“You know,” Hyodo starts, glancing at him with a look that’s part hesitant and part hopeful, “if you’re worried about him, you should come visit. Mankai Company, I mean.”

Banri stiffens.

“He misses you. A lot of ‘em do. I think - it’d mean somethin’ if you dropped by and -”

“And what?” Banri spits out. It comes out more venomous than he intended, but it does its job of getting Hyodo to physically recoil from him. “What would I do there? Stroll in and say, ‘Yo, it’s me!’ and wait for everyone to welcome me inside with open arms?” He lets out a derisive laugh. “As if. I ain’t gonna embarrass myself like that. It’s been four years - anyone who’s still cryin’ over me leavin’ the troupe ought to get over themselves. I’ve got more important stuff to do than play babysitter.”

Anger flashes across Hyodo’s face. “More important?” he repeats in a low voice. “Are you so busy bein’ famous now that you can’t even spare the time to visit your old troupemates? They were your _friends,_ for years, and you’re tellin’ me you came back to Japan after all this time and you’re not even plannin’ to see ‘em?”

“Yes!” Banri shouts. “That’s exactly what I mean to do! Because -”

He falters.

Hyodo’s eyes narrow. “...Because what?”

“Nothing!” Banri glares up at the ceiling, silently cursing. He can’t believe he almost said that out loud. If Hyodo knew the truth, he’d never let him live it down, and Banri would have to kill him and figure out how to make it look like an accident. “Just - shut up! I ain’t going to Mankai! Don’t you dare tell anyone you saw me here!”

“Aah? You want me to lie to everyone and pretend we ain’t gonna be workin’ together for the next few months? They’re gonna figure it out when they come to watch the play, idiot! How do you think they’re gonna feel then?”

“That’s not my problem, is it?”

Hyodo stares at him, face aghast for a brief moment before he grits his teeth and stalks into Banri’s personal space, grabbing his shirt collar and yanking him close until they’re nose-to-nose. “The fuck is wrong with you?! Since when did you care so little about other people’s feelings?”

“Bastard - let go of me!” Banri reflexively drops the script and tries to peel Hyodo’s fingers off of him. “I’ve always been like this, asshole! I ain’t the kind of person you think I am!”

Hyodo snorts, and the sound is an ice shard driven into Banri’s gut. “Yeah, that’s becomin’ abundantly clear! The Settsu I thought I knew cared about his teammates more than his pride!”

“What, you think you’re so much better than me?” Banri sneers. “Don’t make me laugh. You’re a daikon actor stuck in the same place you’ve been in since high school. You sure you have the right to talk big when you’re still hangin’ around in the same troupe?”

The cold expression on Hyodo’s face melts in an instant, replaced by a white hot fury Banri can practically feel rolling off from him in waves. His fist tightens around Banri’s collar, almost to the point of choking him, and the glare he burns into Banri’s eyes is fierce enough to melt steel.

“Shut up,” Hyodo hisses. “Insult me all you want, I don’t care. But don’t you _dare_ look down on Autumn Troupe, or the rest of the company. I don’t know why you’re suddenly actin’ like all this is beneath you, but you better get your act together before Mankai Company shows up to see our show. As you are now, they’d be better off never knowin’ you ever came back.”

“Great, because I’d be better off with ‘em never knowin’ too!” Banri retorts, trying to ignore the pressure slowly increasing around his neck. “If you wanna figure out a way to stop ‘em from coming, or tellin’ everyone I’m not actually me, or whatever, be my guest. Like I said, I don’t care. I’ll -”

“Um...excuse me?”

He and Hyodo whip around, startled, and lock eyes with the short blonde boy peeking at them from the wings of the stage. He offers them a tiny, sheepish smile that vanishes when neither he nor Hyodo smile back. “Er, I’m really sorry to bother you, but we’re starting rehearsal soon and the director asked me to tell you two to come to the practice room. She, um, also said that if you two keep fighting so loudly, she’ll kick you both out of the show.”

Hyodo mutters something inaudible under his breath and finally releases him. Banri immediately backs away, patting down his collar and throwing the harshest glare he can muster in his direction, but Hyodo avoids his gaze in favour of replying to the boy. “Sorry. We’ll be there soon.”

The boy nods once before scurrying away. Banri watches Hyodo bend down to retrieve his script, expecting him to follow the boy, but instead he hops off the stage and begins walking up the aisle in the direction Banri initially descended from.

“Oi, where are you goin’, dumbass?” Banri calls after him as Hyodo trudges up the auditorium stairs. “The practice room’s the other way!”

Hyodo spares him a single backwards glance. “Need to cool off,” he says. He’s so far away by now that Banri can barely hear his voice. “I’ll find my own way to the practice room. The sight of your face is pissin’ me off.”

“Haah? Come back here and say that to my face!”

Hyodo doesn’t give any indication that he heard him. He leaves the auditorium, the double doors slamming shut behind him, and Banri’s ears ring from the echo.

“Fuck,” he mutters. Then, louder, “Fuck!”

He kicks at the water bottle Hyodo left behind, numbly watching it soar off the stage and land with a dull thud amidst the seats. Banri stares after it, seething, before the fight that’s been thrumming in his veins ever since Hyodo first mentioned the possibility of him visiting Mankai Company slowly leaks out and he slumps against the wall.

Fine. If Hyodo wants to behave like a toddler throwing a tantrum, fine! Banri can deal with that. As long as they get through this play with enough professionalism to put on a decent performance, he couldn’t care less what Hyodo thinks of him. He’d be perfectly fine if they both ignored each other outside of practice for the entirety of his stay in Japan - that’d be ideal, actually, because then he can fly back once this is all over and leave all the messy, complicated feelings that Hyodo’s presence stirred up back in the past, where they belong.

Banri picks himself up, wiping the sweat off his forehead, and starts walking towards the practice room.

He’d already made his choice to keep moving towards the future. To not look back no matter what. He doesn’t need Hyodo, or Mankai Company, anymore.

And they don’t need him.

* * *

_before._

It’s during Banri’s third year at Veludo Arts University, on the day of Hyodo’s twentieth birthday, that Banri asks Hyodo the question that effectively shatters the antagonistic relationship they've been carefully maintaining since the day they met.

In hindsight, it _was_ sort of a loaded question to ask. But since it wasn't the first time that Banri had asked him similar questions, he refuses to admit the situation may have been his fault. Hyodo was the one who made everything weird in the first place, he’d argue later, and if he’d just kept his mouth shut and gone along with him like he always did, maybe nothing would have ever happened.

The fact that Banri’s never really regretted everything that happened is irrelevant.

It's almost midnight, and the hall outside their dorm room is finally quiet. All the students must've retreated to their own rooms to either go to sleep or start their homework, like Hyodo did half an hour ago when he barged in on Banri sitting cross-legged on the floor, furiously grinding the tail end of his one of his mobage events in an attempt to edge out Itaru’s number one ranking. He ignores the sound of Hyodo walking past him to his desk and setting up his textbook and papers, and doesn’t look up from his phone until the clock winds down and he finishes a few thousand points short of Itaru’s score.

“Damn it,” he mutters, tossing his phone aside and scowling at the loud whoop he can hear from down the hall. Well, whatever. He’d cared more about beating Itaru than actually ranking first. He’ll just make sure to demolish him in the next event.

He stretches out his legs and looks over his shoulder at Hyodo, who’s been working in silence throughout all of Banri’s frantic tapping and muttered curses. He’s hunched over his desk, reading through his notes for class - the history of kabuki theatre, judging from the title of his textbook - and silently mouthing the information to himself, brows furrowed. Autumn Troupe’s practice sessions for their next performance are due to start any day, judging by the deepening dark circles under Tsuzuru’s eyes, and Banri assumes Hyodo took that as an incentive to get a head start on his studies.

Banri glances at his own desk, where the pile of binders and textbooks he’d unceremoniously pulled from his backpack and dumped in a messy heap is still sitting from early afternoon. The only pressing thing he needs to do is a final readthrough of his script for the upcoming play in his drama class, but he can worry about that tomorrow - he’d already memorized all his lines weeks ago, and he’s tired.

Yawning, he plugs his phone into his charger and is about to climb the ladder up to his bed when all of a sudden, he remembers the conversation he'd overheard between his classmates during his morning class. Banri pauses mid-step and looks over at Hyodo again, seizing an eraser from his desk and chucking it at him to get his attention.

Hyodo lets out a startled sound as it bounces off his head, rubbing the spot and aiming a glare at him. “Aah? The fuck was that for, Settsu?”

“Just remembered somethin’,” says Banri. “I heard there was some new sweets café that opened up near Veludo Arts. You wanna come with me tomorrow to check it out?”

It’s as if time slows down after the question leaves Banri’s mouth. Hyodo’s pencil stops moving, his shoulders tensing like the words physically struck him, and it seems to take an age before he turns around to face Banri properly. “Huh?”

That’s a strange reaction, even for Hyodo, whose actions Banri perpetually finds perplexing, but he’s too preoccupied with getting an answer out of him to dwell on it. “Oi, don’t tell me your ears stopped workin’,” he chides. “Some of my classmates were discussin’ the place and mentioned their desserts are real good. Should have exactly the kind of teeth-rotting junk you love to eat. So? You free tomorrow?”

Instead of salivating at the mere mention of sweets like Banri expects, Hyodo's face deepens into a frown. “I am,” he says slowly, “but why?”

“Whaddya mean, _why?_? You live off sugar, the menu of that place could probably power you alone for the rest of your life.”

“ _I mean_ ,” Hyodo grinds out, hand clenching around his pencil like there’s nothing he wants more than to stab Banri with it, “that you don’t. You hate sweet stuff. So why do _you_ want to go there?”

There’s a moment of silence as Banri digests the question. Then he swings his head back around to stare at Hyodo in disbelief, one eyebrow raised incredulously. “Haah? You’re askin’ me this _now?_ I’ve been askin’ you out to eat with me for months!”

Hyodo shrugs. “M’ just curious. Didn’t think much about it at first, but considering how you’re always goin’ on and on ‘bout how much you can’t stand me, I thought it’s a bit weird that you keep askin’ me...”

Banri tears his gaze away, mind working frantically. Honestly? He doesn’t have a reason. Not a good one he can say to Hyodo’s face, anyway. It’s true that he wouldn’t normally go to those kind of places by himself when most of the items on their menus are loaded with enough sugar to make him throw up, and the decor is usually way too cutesy and overwhelmingly colourful for his tastes. But ever since Taichi and Yuki dragged him with them inside a cake shop one day and the traitorous thought _Hyodo would love this place_ crossed his mind, it’s like the idea became entrenched in his mind. Now whenever he passes by a store that sells anything remotely sweet, he finds himself inviting Hyodo out to eat there before he even realizes it - and every time he swears to himself that it’ll never happen again, he proves himself wrong.

Just the thought that, maybe, he might actually _enjoy_ seeing Hyodo happy every once in a while makes him want to grab his pencil and carve his own brain out until he forgets it.

Banri clears his throat and forces himself to meet Hyodo’s eyes. “Well,” he says, with as much nonchalance as he can when he’s feeling whatever the opposite of nonchalant is, “it’s your birthday tomorrow, right? As your troupe leader, I figured I oughta treat you.”

Hyodo’s expression darkens. “My birthday's today, asshole.”

“...Huh, really? Coulda sworn it was tomorrow.” Banri winces. “Uh, happy birthday, I suppose. Then...ah, it’d be good for us to practice the dialogue exchanges there for our next play, especially during the last scene. That way, we can finish runnin’ through all our lines without you ditchin’ halfway through ‘cause you’re hungry.”

“That happened _one time,_ ” Hyodo grumbles, “and we just did that last week at that coffee shop near the supermarket, remember? Director already told us our exchanges are perfect.”

Shit. Banri completely forgot about that. “Right,” he chuckles, brushing it off with a wave of his hand. “Uh, well...you know how Tsumugi-san and I sometimes like going out to different cafés? He mentioned once that he doesn’t mind sweets, so it’s worth it for me to check out the menu and atmosphere of the place.”

“Then why don’t you just go to the café with Tsumugi-san instead of me...?”

Banri wishes that Hyodo could’ve picked any other day of the year to suddenly decide that using his brain would be a good idea. “That’s - a good point,” he reluctantly concedes. “Hmph. In that case, how ‘bout it’s ‘cause of -”

“Forget it. I don’t wanna hear any more of your bullshit excuses -”

“Hah?”

"- so just tell me this.” Hyodo sets down his pencil and closes his notebook. “All those times you’ve been takin’ me out to eat…”

“Yeah?” Banri says impatiently. “What about ’em?”

“...Were they dates?”

For the second time in as many minutes, it takes Banri several long moments to process Hyodo’s question. The instant he does, he immediately takes back all his thoughts about Hyodo apparently using his brain today.

“What the fuck?” he sputters. “No! No, they are not dates! The fuck?! Where the hell did that idea come from?”

The tips of Hyodo’s ears burn red. “I happened to mention ‘em to Muku, and he said they reminded him of some scenes from...I don’t remember the title of the manga.” A pensive look crosses his face. “It has the word ‘sparkly’ in it, I think...?”

At the moment, Banri couldn’t care less about the title of one specific manga out of Muku’s extensive collection. “Clearly your cousin’s brain has rotted from reading too much shoujo manga -”

“Oi, fucker, leave Muku out of this -”

“- because really, dates? It’s obvious neither of you have ever been on a date before, if that’s what you think dates are like! They ain’t anythin’ like the shit we do when we go out! If I’d wanted to take you on a real date, you’d fuckin’ know it!”

There’s a very heavy pause.

“...Did you want to?”

“Haah?”

“You said, ‘if I wanted to take you on a real date.” Hyodo averts his eyes. “Is that...somethin’ you wanna do?”

What Banri wants, right now, is to throttle some sense into him. Seriously, _that_ part of his outburst is what Hyodo chose to focus on? It figures that a daikon like him must’ve never been the target of someone’s romantic feelings before, if he could listen to Banri yelling at him like that and think it’s some sort of twisted confession. What the fuck gave him the impression that _Banri_ , of all people, would ever want to date him? As if he doesn’t have better things to do in his free time than entertain Hyodo’s every whim and indulge in his lack of his tastebuds!

Except, well...he’s already doing that, isn’t he? The last time they went out together, it was because an acquaintance of Hyodo’s had recommended an ice cream parlour to him - Banri happened to witness him heading out and, with nothing better to do, tagged along. Then they’d only realized how expensive the ice cream was _after_ they’d already ordered two cones, so Banri was forced to bail him out with the promise that Hyodo owed him the money plus interest when they got back to the dorms. And as if that wasn’t enough, he was also forced to get up from his seat to fetch napkins for Hyodo because the idiot had melted ice cream dripping down his chin and Banri needed to clean it up before he did something stupid like brush it off with his thumb. And maybe lick it afterwards.

Fuck. Okay, maybe Muku wasn’t completely off the mark when he told Hyodo it sounded like Banri was taking him out on dates. But that still didn’t make any of their previous outings dates! Banri’s been on dates before, more out of boredom than any real reciprocation of feelings, and none of them involved the object of his non-affections slinging insults at him the entire time when Banri was the one doing him a favour. On the rare occasions when the two of them end up going out alone - which, now that he thinks about, aren’t really that rare - there’s none of the mushy shit or sappy one-liners that Banri suffers through on his other dates. Rather, he and Hyodo treat each other the way they always do, which means they usually end up getting kicked out of whatever place they happen to be in when the inevitable fighting starts.

He looks back at Hyodo, who’s still studiously avoiding Banri’s gaze while waiting for him to reply. Banri isn’t sure when he stopped looking at Hyodo to calculate the best way he could take him down, and when he started not to mind his presence all that much. When he started thinking that Hyodo’s eyes lighting up whenever he spotted sweets wasn’t gross, but almost endearing. When seeing Hyodo cautiously happy whenever Banri offered to treat him made something warm bloom in his chest and wrap softly around his heart. They still fight, but the undercurrent of angry tension that used to permeate them is gone, replaced by the same excitement he feels whenever he meets Hyodo’s eyes on stage and knows that they’re thinking the same thing. That whatever action he does next, Hyodo will match him.

As much as Banri hates to admit it, he hasn't truly hated Hyodo in a long time, even on the days when Hyodo irritates him so badly that their ensuing fights are so loud that it brings the rest of Autumn Troupe running to their room to make sure they don’t kill each other while Director-chan laments that they never change. He wouldn’t call their tentative truce friendship - just the thought makes him gag - but he’s not sure whether the complicated emotions that well up inside him when he sees Hyodo are anything remotely romantic, either. It’s not the kind of thing he can ask any of his Mankai seniors for advice on, since he’d rather die than admit to anyone that there’s a chance he might be harbouring non-platonic feelings for Hyodo. But if he’ll be doing this with Hyodo - the one person who’s already seen every cruel and ugly side of Banri, and never pushed him away completely - then he isn’t averse to figuring out the answer together with him.

“Y’know what? Sure, why not,” Banri says finally, leaning against the ladder and flashing Hyodo a wide smirk. “You better make sure your schedule is free tomorrow, ‘cause I’m gonna take you on the best damn date you’ll ever have in your entire life.”

Hyodo blinks at him, and it suddenly occurs to Banri that he never actually mentioned whether _he_ was interested in going on a real date with him. Panicking, he’s ready to backtrack and laugh off the offer as a joke when Hyodo’s mouth curls up in a smirk to rival Banri’s own. “‘Kay. But if it sucks, I’ll be ditchin’ you halfway through.”

“The hell?” Banri yelps, but there’s a fierce incandescent joy bubbling up inside him and the grin on his face refuses to die down. “I said it’d be the _best_ date, dumbass! That’s a promise!”

"...Heh. M’ holdin’ you to that."

* * *

Rehearsal is, perhaps predictably, a disaster.

Banri’s aware that the first day is supposed to be bad, considering it’s usually an icebreaker for the cast and crew to begin familizaring themselves with each other’s personalities and acting styles - especially in a production like this where all the actors hail from various international talent agencies. But whoever was in charge of the selection process clearly hadn’t done enough research into their chosen actors, or they would’ve seen enough about his and Hyodo’s volatile history to send them scurrying in the direction of any other pair of actors.

When Hyodo returns and the first rehearsal finally gets underway, they manage to refrain from any more petty bickering and attempt to get along with the rest of their Les Misérables co-stars, despite the fact that most of the cast must’ve already heard them yelling at each other from backstage. This terrible first impression only worsens when the director calls for them to run through Enjolras and Grantaire’s lines in their first scene together, and the tension between them is palpable in every word they speak through gritted teeth. By some miracle, the both of them aren’t kicked out of the production on the spot, but from the sharp glare of disapproval levelled at them by the director at the end of the day, it's easy to tell they’re both treading on thin ice.

Which leads to Banri prowling the streets of Veludo Way at dusk, script in hand as he alternates between rereading his lines, glaring at anyone who dares to stare at him for too long, and peering around for a good restaurant that he can pop into for a quick dinner before resuming his memorization. His best chance at proving they haven’t made a mistake in choosing the actor Settsu Banri to star in their production of Les Misérables is to get through all the first steps as soon as possible, so he can start working on polishing his overall performance and showing off to everyone exactly what he's capable of.

The setting sun peeks over the market stalls and shops cluttering the sidewalks, casting misshapen shadows along the roads. Banri navigates his way between the crowds of families bustling through the area, most holding tickets for a scheduled play or searching for a street act to watch. He might not have been here in four years, but he’s still got the map of the entire Veludo Way area perfectly laid out in his head, and he walks with a confidence he doesn’t need to fake as he crosses streets and turns corners without hesitation. Some of the locations from his memory are missing - stores that didn’t last and theatres that failed to attract enough guests having closed down and left empty buildings with ‘For Lease’ signs behind - but for the most part, the scenery he passes through overlays perfectly with the vision from his memories.

Thanks to that, he’s able to keep himself from veering anywhere near Mankai Company and stick to the outskirts of Veludo Way as he searches for a place with decent food. To fit in with the affluent clientele that theatres tend to draw in, most of the restaurants peppered around the area are way too classy for the taste and environment he’s seeking now. Banri’s about ready to give up and simply pick something up from the nearest combini when he stops, backtracks, and looks up at the small dinner theatre he’d just walked by.

Tucked between a game centre and a high-end fashion boutique, with a pitch black overhang and signboard with its name written in embellished gold lettering, sits the restaurant _Gentiana._

Surprise dissolves into amusement, and Banri’s mouth twists into a wry smile. Zen’s restaurant, huh. He didn’t realize he’d strayed _that_ far from the main streets of Veludo Way. He’s almost tempted to enter, especially when he recalls exactly how delicious Zen’s food is and his stomach growls at the thought, but it’s probably better if he stays away. Zen might not have technically belonged to Mankai Company for years now, but he has no doubt that he’s still close with the whole troupe, especially Autumn. Besides, it’s eerily quiet and the lights are off, so the chances of the place being closed are -

The front door slides open.

“Sorry, we’re closing soon,” the familiar voice drawls. “Please come back tomorrow for -”

The original Autumn Troupe’s leader stops mid-sentence, blinking. “Hm?”

Banri opens his mouth, closes it, realizes how stupid that must look, and opens it again. “Hey, Zen-san,” he says, mentally cursing his ongoing shitty luck. “Uh, long time no see. I just happened to be in the area and looking for something to eat. Didn’t really mean to stop here since you’re closed and all, so. I’ll be on my way -”

Zen’s lips quirk up. “Don’t be ridiculous. Even if it hadn’t been years since I last laid eyes on you, I’d still invite you in. It’ll take less than five minutes for me to whip up our leftovers into a quick meal for you.”

“No, it’s okay, really -”

“Banri.” Zen’s faint smile doesn’t waver, but his tone drops, gaining a dangerous edge. Paired with his dark red suit and striped yellow shirt, it reminds Banri uncomfortably of the clowns he’s encountered in American haunted houses. “I insist.”

Banri can’t suppress an incredulous chuckle. “We’ve just met for the first time in four years and you’re already trying to bully me, old man?”

“Hey, you’re the one still calling me ‘old man.’ Who’s the real bully here?”

“The one forcing me to eat at his own restaurant, clearly. You gonna make me pay you, too?”

“No, this one is on the house.” Zen opens the door wider, gesturing for him to come in. “But in exchange, I’d like to hear about all your exciting adventures in America.”

Banri hesitates. A slow, foreboding chill crawls down his spine. “Any particular reason why?”

“As you said, it’s the first time we’ve met in four years. Can’t an alleged old man simply wish to spend some time catching up with his former kouhai? See how he’s enjoying living the bigshot celebrity life?”

“I’m not a celebrity.”

Zen’s gaze flicks above his head. “You might want to tell that to the person on the street trying to take a photo of you.”

“Oh, for the love of...” With the ease of experience, Banri yanks his hood over his hair and shoves the play script into his jacket pocket. “Fine, whatever. I guess I can let you feed me.”

“You could stand to sound a little less ungrateful about it,” Zen says wryly as he moves aside to let Banri in. “What would all your fans think if they could hear you?”

“Don’t know and don’t really care right now.” Banri sheds his jacket, hanging it on the coat rack near the entrance, and dumps his backpack on the floor. Rolling out a kink in his neck, he glances back at Zen. “You need any help with cooking?”

He's immediately waved off. “I was serious about having a lot of leftover ingredients. It’ll take no time at all to throw something together. Just take a seat.”

As Zen trudges into the kitchen, Banri approaches the dining area. His gaze roves over the familiar wooden chairs and long white tablecloths, the wine glasses and small lamps glowing softly on every table. Navy blue curtains hide the stage set into the far wall, illuminated by the large oak chandeliers. He has a sudden, vivid recollection of standing on that very stage one ordinary afternoon with some of the other company members, practicing lines for a play that eventually devolved into an impromptu etude performed in front of Zen’s lunch guests. The memory burns in his gut like he’d swallowed something coated in sugar and doused in acid.

He drops into the closest seat, leaning back in his chair and letting his exhaustion from the day crash over him. It’s nowhere close to being the longest workday he’s ever had - back in America, there were days where he was up before six in the morning and didn’t get back home until well after midnight - but he doesn’t think he’s ever been this emotionally tired from a simple play readthrough.

Banri sighs, dragging a hand down his face. The shock of seeing Hyodo again, and the unexpected venom that accompanied every word out of his mouth, unlocked a treasure chest’s worth of complicated emotions he’s been trying to hold back ever since he finalized the arrangement of his temporary stay in Japan. His close proximity to Mankai Company isn’t helping, either. Just the knowledge that all the friends from his past, the actors he’d been proud to call family, is within walking distance makes it difficult for Banri not to imagine what would happen if he threw out all his convictions and went knocking on their front door. If he did, how would they react? Did Hyodo keep his word about not telling them about his participation in the play? Or did they know the truth now, and wouldn’t let him inside even if he were to show his face?

It was a lot easier not worrying about all this stuff when Banri was preoccupied with work and also happened to be thousands of miles away from everyone. He misses the anonymity of his early days of acting overseas, when the only thing he needed to do was show up to practice, work hard, and ensure it all paid off when final performances rolled around. Back when he was fresh out of Japan, ready to take on anything and still fueled by his simmering resentment towards Hyodo, everything came easily to him. Polishing his acting, improving his English, sitting in interview after interview after interview bearing the same perfect smile - his extensive list of assignments required all of his focus and time, and helped to take his mind off all the things he didn’t want to think about. Now that he's back, he no longer has that luxury.

He should never have accepted that offer to join the play. He should never have returned to Japan. It was a mistake, a stupid decision he’d made while labouring under the delusion that he could somehow get through this headache of a play unscathed, and fate responded to his hubris by throwing Hyodo Juza - the one person he absolutely did not want to see again - into his path less than an hour after his arrival.

Banri regrets that he didn’t punch him once, regardless of the fact that it definitely would’ve gotten him kicked out of the show. Just one punch, and at least the satisfaction from getting a good, clean hit on that bastard’s smug, overbearing face might’ve made this whole mess worth it.

“Why do you have that expression on your face?”

He startles slightly as Zen sets a bowl of ramen in front of him. Damn it, he didn’t even hear the old man coming back. He needs to get a better grip on his senses before he loses his mind completely. “What expression?”

“Like you want to hit someone.” Producing a bottle of red wine out of nowhere, Zen fills his glass. “I saw it a lot back in my time in Autumn Troupe. Used to see it on your troupe members’ faces occasionally, too.”

Despite himself, Banri snorts. “Your first generation Autumn Troupe really was exactly like mine, huh.”

He catches the slip-up too late and winces, but Zen doesn’t bring it up. “They _are_ remarkably similar,” he says, pouring a generous amount of wine into his own glass. “It’s not just Autumn Troupe - all of us original troupe leaders have discussed the matter with Izumi, and it’s unsettling how much your generation mirrors ours. I wonder…”

He trails off into a pensive silence. Banri ignores the open-ended sentence, opting to take a closer look at the quick soup Zen cooked up for him. Picking up the pair of chopsticks resting over the bowl, he pokes around the broth. Thick cut noodles, seaweed squares, bits of pork, chopped green onions, seasoned bean sprouts, slices of hard boiled egg tossed in haphazardly - it’s obviously a spur-of-the-moment creation, but the delicious scent wafting up from the bowl is more than enough to detract from its hasty construction. He snags one of the egg slices soaking in the broth and chews.

“How is it?” asks Zen, taking the seat opposite him.

“It’s good. Thanks. But are you sure you don’t want me to pay?”

“I’m sure. I may not be a celebrity like you -”

“Zen-san, quit callin' me a celebrity, I’m not -”

“- but I can afford to treat you to a meal.” Zen lifts his glass, tipping it towards Banri for a toast. “Besides, I was serious about wanting to hear about your time overseas.”

Banri clinks his glass against Zen's on autopilot. “Why?”

“Hm?”

“If you already know that I became famous overseas, then you must already know about all the acting I’ve done there. You mentioned talking with Direc - Izumi, and I’m sure you meet up regularly with the rest of Mankai Company, too. Meaning you probably know about...everything that happened when I quit the troupe.” The _so why would you want to know anything about me?_ goes unspoken, but Zen’s eyes narrow in understanding.

He takes a slow, careful sip of wine and regards Banri over the rim. “I do know about some of it. I read the news occasionally, and even if I didn’t, some of your former troupemates like to update me on all the things you’ve starred in whenever we have the chance to catch up. However, I wanted to hear _your_ perspective on your experiences.” He sets down his glass. “The same goes for the other incident - I’ve heard a bit about what happened, but everyone has been keeping rather tight-lipped about the details. I won’t pry, since it’s not any of my business, and I won’t judge. I’m the last person who would judge anyone for choosing to leave their acting troupe, after all.”

Half of Banri is curious about which troupemates still talk about him, but the other half vehemently doesn’t want to know. He chews on his lip, swirling his chopsticks around his bowl and watching the noodles tangle around the wood. “I know. S’ not that I’m afraid of you judging me or anything, I wouldn’t even care if you did -”

“I’m touched by your high opinion of me,” Zen says dryly.

“- It’s just that I don’t even know myself how to feel about everything I’ve done.” The warm air in the restaurant suddenly feels stifling. “Have you ever made a decision - one that you know was the right choice, and you don’t regret making it, but even so you spend every waking hour thinking that maybe, the consequences weren’t worth it? That maybe the wrong choice would’ve been better, in the end?”

Zen’s eyebrows raise, and to Banri’s surprise, his mouth cracks into a small grin. For him, it’s the equivalent of bursting into laughter. “I would bet almost everyone has made those kinds of decisions before, Banri. People make so many choices over the course of their lives, and we aren’t perfect. Of course we’re all bound to have regrets. You say ‘right choice’ and ‘wrong choice’ but you know, not every choice exists in such a simple black-and-white box - each one has ramifications that we can't always control, regardless of whether it was the best choice to make at the time."

“Then how do you know which one to choose?”

“You don't. You make a choice, you stick with it, and you learn to live with it.” Zen drains the rest of his glass. "But you already know all this, I'm sure. So what are you really asking, Banri?”

Banri, in truth, doesn’t know what he’s asking. Running into Kuryu Zen was a coincidence, and he wasn’t any more prepared to meet with him than he was with anyone else related to Mankai Company. He definitely hadn’t planned on accidentally spilling one of his innermost thoughts just because he’d lost control of the conversation. He crunches on a bean sprout, mind running through several possible lines of dialogue he could toss out to him like bait for a fish and hope Zen hooks onto the subject change.

But since he's here anyway, maybe it'd be worth asking him more relevant questions. He’d probably never admit it to his face, but he does actually value Zen’s opinion. And old men like him are supposed to come along with wisdom and experience, aren’t they?

“Before I say anything,” Banri says cautiously, “I should mention that I wasn’t planning on meeting with you. And I’m still not planning on seein’ anyone from Mankai Company,” he adds hastily, just in case Zen gets some harebrained idea to -

“Ah. I suppose I shouldn't have called them over while I was in the kitchen.”

 _“What?!”_ Banri springs out his chair, chopsticks clattering onto the table. “Are they comin’ here _now?_ I've got to go -”

"I'm kidding, I’m kidding, I didn't call them!" Zen lunges across the table before Banri can trip over his own feet in his panic, forcing him back into his seat. "Calm down."

Banri crosses his arms over his chest, shooting Zen a glare filled with every ounce of irritation he’s feeling and fighting the childish impulse to fling a piece of pork at him. “Not funny.”

"Speak for yourself. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you lose your composure like that. That was the most entertaining thing I've seen in months."

"Then you need to hire better comedy performers for this theatre," he snipes back.

“Yes, yes, point taken. Sorry for interrupting you. What were you going to say?”

Banri gives him a dirty look. “I was _going_ to ask you if you ever regretted leaving Autumn Troupe, but now I’m reconsiderin’ how much I should value your judgment.”

Zen’s mirth fades. “Leaving Autumn Troupe, huh...I feel like we’ve had this conversation before.” He taps his fingernails absentmindedly against his glass. The staccato melody echoes around the empty interior of the restaurant. “Wasn’t that the first time you visited this place?”

The memory resurfaces. “Yeah. You dragged me in here and cooked for me that time, too.”

“Heh. I did, didn’t I?” The words come out light, airy, but Zen’s gaze is fixed somewhere over Banri’s shoulder. “That time, you asked me why I quit the troupe.”

“Yeah.” The irony isn't lost on Banri. At the time, he was riding high on every one of Mankai Company’s successes, secure in the knowledge that he was improving and having fun acting alongside everyone, and he never would’ve imagined that one day he would be the one leaving the way he did. Guilt rises in his throat like bile, and he quickly chokes it down.

“I hope you’re not thinking I’ll be indirectly telling you whether or not I think you made the right choice yourself. Our situations were different, and I won’t tell you what to do with your own life. Do that yourself.” Despite the harsh words, Zen’s voice is tempered by a sardonic smile. “If I remember correctly, I’d told you that my time as an actor in Mankai Company, and with the other troupe members, was only meant to cross for that brief period of time. I still believe it, and I don’t regret my decision to leave.”

He folds his fingers under his chin. “That being said, I’ve come to think that those things you said about certain bonds lasting a lifetime…perhaps there's some truth to that."

“Really? Didn’t think you’d change your mind that easily.”

“It doesn’t happen often,” Zen assures him. “However, I never thought I’d have the opportunity to act on stage with Hiro, Syu, Kasumi, and everyone again. It was more enjoyable than I expected. Perhaps I also missed them, more than I realized.” His smile turns wistful, nostalgic. “I may have had some regrets about the consequences of my own choices in the past, but if they all led to that moment - that version of me, standing on stage with my comrades once again - then it was all worth it.”

Banri was there, of course, the night that the original Mankai Company troupe leaders took the stage together for the first time in decades, but now he tries to picture what the scene must’ve been like from Zen’s point of view - Zen, who hadn’t acted in who knows how many years, who believed up until that moment that the bond he’d shared with his former friends was long broken. Who’d chosen to follow Ikaruga Hakkaku’s last wishes and taken part in the theatre challenge, in spite of all his long-held beliefs.

He sort of gets it. Zen’s dinner theatre was flourishing long before Banri met him, and anyone could tell from looking at him that he was living his dream by entertaining his patrons from behind the kitchen counter rather than on the stage. But he guesses Zen’s right when he says their situations are different, because Banri can’t imagine being happy while the knowledge of how much he’s left behind, how much he still needs to do, weighs heavy on his shoulders.

“Like I said, you can’t compare us simply because we both happened to quit being leaders of Autumn Troupe,” Zen says, eyeing him, and Banri wonders when he became so easy to read. “I was content with my life after Mankai Company. You, on the other hand, are not.” He tilts his head. “Do you miss them?”

“‘Course not. I already said I don’t plan on seeing 'em, remember?”

“But is that not why you returned to Japan?”

“Hah? I returned because I was offered a role in the Les Misérables play they’re putting on here, and I accepted it.”

“Is that truly the only reason?”

He frowns, puzzled, and Zen sighs. “Never mind.” He reaches for the wine bottle and pours himself another drink. “A play based on Les Misérables, huh. I heard about it from Juza, after he was also offered a role.”

Banri tenses at the sudden mention of Hyodo’s name, but fortunately Zen doesn’t seem to notice. He inhales and forces himself to relax - he can’t afford to have that kind of reaction every time, not when he’ll be hearing his name way more than he’d like from now on. “I see.”

“It brought back memories.” Zen leans back in his chair. “The original Winter Troupe was planning on performing Les Misérables - Hakkaku-san even finished writing the outline of their script - but it fell apart because Yukio insisted on having Syu play the role of Fantine, and Syu flat out refused.”

Banri snorts. He slurps up the last few noodles in his bowl and sets it aside, reaching for his own glass of wine. “Did Syu-san hate female roles that much?”

“Eh, he didn’t mind them every once in a while. At the time, though, he’d just performed as a female character for the previous Winter Troupe play, so he didn’t want to do it again so soon.” Zen shrugs. “I don’t blame him, but it would have been nice if he enjoyed crossdressing for roles the way Juza does -”

Banri promptly chokes on his wine. _“What?”_

“- then perhaps the play would have gone ahead. Winter Troupe’s shows were always very popular, and a performance of Les Misérables by them would have definitely attracted a sizable crowd.”

“Wait, hold on,” Banri sputters, wiping his chin where the wine dribbled down. “What was that about Hyodo and crossdressing?”

“Hm?” Zen’s face is painted with confusion, but he can’t quite manage to hide his growing smirk. Banri takes back every instance he thought that the years-long gap in Zen’s acting career wasn’t evident. “You haven’t heard? Juza has developed quite the reputation for his crossdressing roles. It doesn’t occur in _every_ play he’s in, but it’s often enough that longtime fans of Autumn Troupe are no longer surprised by it. You should watch some of them, I think that Summer Troupe kid - Miyoshi, I believe? - posted clips on the company’s official Instablam page. He -”

“You’re doin’ this on purpose.”

Zen hides his smile behind his glass of wine. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Banri scowls. “You already admitted that you know about what happened when I left the troupe. So you must know that we’re not...that we didn’t part on good terms. You brought up Hyodo’s name deliberately to see how I’d react.”

“Clever as ever, I see. But can you blame me?” Zen fixes him with a mock accusing look. “We’ve been sitting here and conversing for over twenty minutes, and I have learned nothing about what you’ve been up to for the past four years despite your promise to do so.”

“Oi, you’re the one who conned me into agreein’ to that, I never promised anything!”

“All I have learned,” Zen says, ignoring him and holding up a fist, “is that you don’t want to talk about whatever you did in America,” he raises one finger, “you don’t want to talk about whatever led you to performing in this Les Misérables play,” he lifts another finger, “and you don’t want to see, talk to, or even discuss anything to do with anyone from Mankai Company. Especially anything related to Juza.” He waves his three fingers in Banri’s face. “These are all things you’ve made it exceedingly clear you _don’t_ want to talk about. How the heck did you become a celebrity if you never want to talk about anything?”

“I ain’t a celebrity,” says Banri, even though he’s pretty sure Zen isn’t going to listen to him this time any more than he did the first two times. “And that’s different. When I’m doin’ interviews or makin’ small talk with other actors, I usually don’t have to talk about myself. Or if I have to, I can just bullshit my way through it.”

Zen sets down his glass. “If that’s the case, why didn’t you do the same to me?”

“Well, I know you personally. I wouldn’t lie to your face like that. It’d be disrespectful.”

A brief flash of amusement dances across Zen’s face. “Even when you accuse me of intentionally provoking you?”

“...As annoying as that was, I can’t really judge you for it. I’ve also been told I tend to provoke and piss people off.”

“You do.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

Zen shrugs, unrepentant. “At least, you used to. You seem a bit different than before you left. More mature, and less of a brat than you used to be. Your old troupemates, too - if you ever do see them again, I bet you’d be surprised at how much they’ve changed, too.”

“Speakin’ of Autumn Troupe…” Banri swallows, considering whether it’s worth probing too far into the topic, and decides he’s had enough of being spineless for one day. “You keep in touch with’em, right? How are they doing?”

“...I thought you said you didn’t miss them.”

“There’s a difference between missing them and just wanting to know they’re doin’ okay, isn’t there?”

He means it to be a rhetorical question, but Zen ponders it seriously, scratching his beard. “I suppose that’s a fair point, even if I’m not entirely sure it’s relevant in this case. Regardless, I’m not qualified to answer you.”

“Aah? The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not a member of Mankai Company. I’m not the one you should be asking that question.” In the flickering light, Zen’s amber eyes are unreadable. “Either you ask them yourself -”

“No.” The rejection leaves Banri’s mouth before he’s even done processing the suggestion. “Not happenin’.”

“Okay. Then trust them. Trust that they’re doing fine. You already asked Juza how they are, right?”

Banri doesn’t bother asking how he knew that. “Yeah, but this is Hyodo we’re talkin’ about. He doesn’t like me.” A massive understatement, but he doesn’t particularly feel like recounting exactly how clear Hyodo made it that he’d have preferred to never see his face again. “I dunno how much I can trust what he says.”

"Really," Zen says mildly. "If I'm not mistaken, when you quit Autumn Troupe, you also chose Juza to succeed you as leader. Is that a decision you would have made if you didn't trust him completely?"

"Wha - that's different," Banri protests. "His qualities as an actor have nothing to do with how I - wait, how do you even know I picked him to be the next leader?"

"Oh, Izumi let it slip one night. To her credit, I don't think she meant to tell me, but she was a little drunk. Anyway, it doesn’t matter how Juza personally feels about you - he loves Autumn Troupe just as much as you. Maybe even more so. If he says they’re doing fine, then -”

“Yes, I know that!”

The irritated exclamation bursts out of him like air escaping a punctured balloon. Zen’s expression shifts to one of faint surprise.

Fuck. He needs to get a grip on his temper. It’s been years since he had an outburst like that. It must be the stress building up, or the mortification he’s feeling at being talked down to like he’s a little kid even though Zen said he seems more mature. He doesn’t feel more mature. He feels like he’s walked off a diving board without knowing how to swim.

Old habits die hard. It doesn’t matter that Banri once learned what it was like to have teammates who had his back, how to trust a friend and earn their trust in return. There will always be a part of him that’s still cautious. Still constantly on edge. After a lifetime of enduring his classmates’ envy over his test scores, his teacher’s disdain whenever he picked another fight, and his parents' indifference to his accomplishments until he too stopped caring, he’s never been able to completely shake off the veneer of casual perfection that people came to expect from him. It’s easier to put up a front than to risk judgment, and after everything that happened, the lesson he’s learned is that the only person he can really trust is himself.

Does he trust Hyodo? Banri doesn’t know. Despite the fury burning in Hyodo’s eyes during their earlier confrontation in the theatre, Banri doesn’t really think he’d lie to him about anything concerning Autumn Troupe. He knows better than anyone how stupidly kind that idiot can be, even to people who don’t deserve it, and he probably cares about the troupe too much for the thought to have even crossed his mind. But knowing that Hyodo wouldn’t lie to him isn’t the same as trusting him. There’s too much history between them, too many wrecked bridges they left burning when Banri fled overseas. He has confidence that his acting ability is enough to fake an amicable relationship with Hyodo in order to get through the play, but that’s it - it’s not enough for him to pretend he still carries the same faith in Hyodo that he used to. The partnership they’d painstakingly constructed over the years they spent together was destroyed a long time ago, and Banri’s sure it’s not something that can ever be rebuilt.

“It’s not that I _don’t_ trust Hyodo to tell me the truth about how the troupe’s doin’,” Banri says finally, fiddling with his napkin. There’s red wine staining the white fabric from when he wiped his face earlier, and when he tries to rub it out with his thumb, the smear becomes worse. “But it’s somethin’ I feel like I need to see for myself.”

Zen’s expression softens. “It’s normal to feel responsible for them, Banri. I did too. But remember - you’re not their leader anymore. That’s a consequence of the choice you made.”

“Is that why you never went back?”

“I never went back because I didn’t need to. It’s not for the same reason as you.” Zen levels him with a pointed stare. “I didn’t do it to run away.”

“...I'm not running away.”

Even to his own ears, the sentence sounds hollow.

“I don’t want to push you into seeing them if you’re not ready,” says Zen. “I’d be a hypocrite if I did. But if you’re really that concerned about them...just keep the option in mind, hm? I don’t think it’s the wrong choice you’re convinced it is.”

Banri thinks back to Hyodo’s wrath, his own righteous anger, the way they both fell back into fighting and spitting out harsh words like no time had passed at all. Thinks further back to the day he quit the troupe and left Japan, when he made his choice to push towards his future and deliberately buried the past in a place where it can’t hurt him again.

"Maybe," he says out loud, but deep down he knows the skepticism gnawing at his heart won’t fade that easily.

* * *

_before._

“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me,” says Banri.

Hyodo jumps at the sound of his voice, twisting around to face him and nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. Face burning red, he scrambles to regain his balance and shoots Banri a glare that’s more embarrassed than angry. “How long have you been standin' there?”

“Long enough to see you look even more like an idiot than usual.” Banri leans against the doorway of the dressing room. “Director-chan sent me to see what was takin’ you so long. The whole troupe’s waitin’ for you so we can start the dress rehearsal.”

“‘Kay. I’ll be done in a few minutes, so…” Hyodo trails off, looking at him expectantly.

Banri looks right back at him, crosses his arms, and waits.

“...Are you gonna leave so I can finish?”

“Seriously?” Banri gestures at him, one eyebrow raised incredulously. “You know I can see you completely tangled up in your costume, right? I’d be surprised if you manage to finish by tomorrow morning.”

This time, Hyodo’s glare is one hundred percent angry. “I’ll figure it out. Just shut up and lemme work on it.”

“Unless you want the rest of us to be standing on stage doing nothing for the next twenty-four hours, we don’t have time for you to ‘figure it out’,” Banri retorts. “Didn’t Yuki show you how to put that thing on properly?”

“He did, but he helped me with the difficult parts.” Hyodo aims his glare at his costume, as if it'll magically fix itself if it senses how mad he is. “It’s harder by myself, especially if there’s some asshole yappin’ in my ear when I’m tryna concentrate.”

“Fucker - look, I’m offerin’ to help you!”

Hyodo casts him a suspicious look. “How would _you_ know how my costume works?”

“I’m good at everything, remember?” At Hyodo’s disbelieving frown, Banri huffs and elaborates, “My sister used to rope me into helpin’ her get ready for festivals and shit like that. So…” His gaze rakes over Hyodo again, taking in the sakura-patterned black silk of his furisode kimono. Yuki had designed it so the extra loose folds would hide his muscles and make him appear less intimidating than usual, but Hyodo had completely screwed up the simple task of just putting on the damn thing. Rather than draping gracefully over his body, the silk somehow ended up wrapped tightly around his arms and legs, straining so hard that if Hyodo makes a single wrong move, Banri's sure the fabric will tear right in half. The cloth is fairly cheap thanks to Sakyo’s iron grip on their budget, but it’s still pretty enough that the other company members oohed and aahed over it when Yuki unveiled Hyodo’s kimono. He doesn’t want to know what their reactions would be if they accidentally rip it.

“...I know what I'm doing. Trust me.”

Hyodo's eyes narrow, and Banri waits to be thrown out of the dressing room. Instead, he turns his back on Banri and mumbles, “Use the obi.”

“What?”

Hyodo jerks a thumb at the counter, where the kimono's matching pink obi is neatly folded. “Yuki said to make sure the obi’s tied tightly afterwards so the kimono doesn’t keep shiftin’ whenever I move, especially ‘cause of all the action scenes I have.”

"I know that. D’you think I’m stupid?" Banri says, irked, but he moves closer without further complaint, analyzing the damage for a few seconds before grabbing the fabric. “Raise your arms.”

Hyodo complies, stretching them outwards, and Banri adjusts the kimono until it's sitting correctly on his shoulders. As he fixes his collar, he silently thanks Azami for ultimately deciding to style Hyodo’s long purple wig into an ofuku rather than leaving it loose, because this would’ve been way more of a pain if he’d had to keep shoving his hair aside while doing this. Banri steps around him, crouching down to fix the hem of the kimono until it’s a straight line just above Hyodo’s ankles, then standing back up to unwind his sleeves so they’re hanging down properly instead of twisted around his biceps. He reaches for his waist, intending to pull the fabric tighter around him, but Hyodo freezes at his touch.

He stops, hands hovering awkwardly in the air, and glances up at him. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“...Nah.” Hyodo’s face is half turned away from him, and Banri can’t read his expression. “Keep goin’.”

His voice sounds off, the way it does when he’s accidentally eaten an expired sweet but is too polite to spit it out in front of other people. Banri frowns because okay, he’d understand if Hyodo simply didn’t like other people touching him - sometimes, he can’t stand it either - but they’ve been doing a lot more than just touching for over three months now, ever since Banri on-purpose-but-he’s-pretending-it-was-accidentally asked him out on a date and they fell into a new relationship neither of them have verbally labelled yet, and Hyodo’s never expressed any distaste towards Banri initiating physical contact before.

He sighs, deliberately loud enough for Hyodo to hear it loud and clear. “I can’t read your damn mind, moron. If you got somethin’ to say, spit it out. Did you want someone else to do this instead? Omi, maybe? I can guarantee he won’t have as much experience as me, but if it’d make you, I dunno, more comfortable or somethin’ -”

“S’ not that,” Hyodo says quickly. “Just...m’ not used to it.”

That makes even less sense. “What, me touchin’ you? Didja hit your head somewhere? Hate to break it to you, but we've already -”

"S’ not that either!" Hyodo snaps, cheeks tinging pink. Banri never thought he would ever think of Hyodo as _cute,_ but he can admit in the privacy of his own mind that Hyodo getting flustered whenever he references their sexual activities is a little endearing. Just a little.

“M’ not used to seein' you…like this,” Hyodo continues, looking like he’s regretting the words even as he’s speaking them. “Actin’ nice and gentle and all. S’ weird.”

Banri takes a moment to process the mixed feelings that statement gives him, then lets a shit-eating smirk spread across his face. Like hell he's going to pass up this gift Hyodo so kindly dropped into his lap. “Are you sayin’ that you prefer it when I talk shit about you? Dude, you should’ve said so earlier. I could talk for years ‘bout all the stuff that’s wrong with you.”

“Knew I was gonna regret sayin' that,” Hyodo mutters.

“For one, I seriously can’t believe you couldn’t get dressed in your own costume when Yuki took the time to show you how to do it so we wouldn’t be havin’ this exact situation. If you were havin’ trouble, _that_ was the time when you should’ve asked him for help. Now the rest of us are wastin’ time while you were just gonna keep strugglin’ in here alone. I don’t care if you didn't ask outta pride or humiliation or whatever other shitty excuse you have - it's not worth it when opening night's in five days and we've gotta use every spare second we have to prepare.”

“...You’re right. Sorry. Are you done?”

“‘Course not. I got a whole list ready to go. Next, about your daikon acting -”

“You can criticize my acting once we’re done here and rehearsin’ with the others,” Hyodo says, cutting him off. A pity, because Banri wasn’t kidding about the list. “You’re the one who just said not to waste everyone’s time.”

"Oh, so _now_ you listen to me," Banri snarks, snatching the obi and looping it around Hyodo's waist as tight as he can. “That’s real convenient.”

“Ow! The fuck are you doin’, asshole? I need to be able to breathe on stage!”

“Dunno about that, maybe it’d actually improve your acting. S’ not like it can get any worse.”

Hyodo seethes, twisting around to try and grab him, and Banri quickly matches his movements so he can finish tying off his obi before he gets knocked to the ground. “When I let you help me, it wasn’t so you could run your mouth through every insult you can think of!”

“You say that, but apparently you don’t want me bein’ nice to you either,” says Banri, barely able to suppress his laughter. “Make up your damn mind.”

“Fuck you. Just - forget I ever said that.”

“Why would I do that?” Banri pulls on the obi, ensuring it’s secure, and leans up to whisper into Hyodo’s ear. “You were just bein’ honest. You said you think it’s weird, but maybe you actually like it when I’m nice to you. Does it turn you on?”

Hyodo’s entire body twitches, and an instant later he’s shoving Banri away. “Dumbass,” he says, though the insult doesn’t carry as much heat as he expects. “We don’t have time for this now.”

Banri doesn’t need to check the time on his phone to know he’s right. Regretfully he steps back, checking over Hyodo’s kimono again. “Walk around the room. I wanna make sure it stays in place and doesn’t end up like the disaster it was before.”

Hyodo grits his teeth but withholds whatever retort he clearly wants to make, pacing the length of the dressing room under Banri’s critical eye. The initial design of Hyodo’s costume included platform geta shoes, but after they all watched him nearly sprain his ankle five times trying to walk in them, Yuki swapped them out for the satin slippers he’s wearing now. They make barely any sound against the hardwood floor as he treads back to Banri’s side.

“Looks fine,” says Banri, craning his neck to inspect the back of the kimono. Not an inch of fabric has fallen out of place. Perfect. “Toldja I could do it. Is that everything?”

“Just one more thing.” Hyodo’s gaze darts around the room. “Where’d he...oh, there.” He points at a long white box sitting on one of the chairs. “There’s a hairpin in there. Azami said to add it at the end.”

Curious, Banri flips open the cover, whistling when he sees the gem-encrusted gold comb inside. “This must’ve cost more than a couple thousand yen. How the hell did Sakyo-san let this pass?”

“We didn’t buy it for this play. It’s the one Homare-san wore, that time they performed the Inner Palace play at Edo Park.”

“Ah.” Now that he’s looking at the hairpin more closely, Banri vaguely recognizes it. Someone must’ve cleaned and polished it, because the metal is sparkling in the fluorescent light as if it’s brand new. He picks it up and pins it to the top of Hyodo's purple hair, admiring the way it frames the slope of his neck. “Heh, it doesn't look half bad. From the back, you really do pass for a woman.”

“... Only from the back?”

If Banri didn’t know him so well, he’d accuse Hyodo of fishing for a compliment, but he can hear the tremulous uncertainty in his voice. “Azami did a great job with your makeup, but your face still looks pretty masculine,” he says bluntly. “Between that and the fact that your Adam’s apple is really prominent, even with the greasepaint, it’s a good thing the audience can’t see you from up close ‘cause that would shatter the illusion real quick. I’ll admit it’s not as terrible as I expected, but it’s far from perfect.”

“I didn’t go into this expectin’ perfection.” Hyodo peers into the mirror to check his reflection, brow furrowing as he smoothes down the wrinkles in the fabric. “S’ long as it’s passable, that’s fine. I’ll work on my acting enough to make up for it.”

Banri doesn’t doubt it. For all his gripes about Hyodo being his usual daikon self, he’s watched him train harder than he’s ever done before in the weeks leading up to their play, spending every minute of his free time outside of university classes practicing for his part. He’s taken lessons from some of the other Mankai Company members who’ve performed female roles in the past, writing down their tips on how to speak more femininely and doing action scenes while wearing a kimono, then figuring out the best way to incorporate them into his acting. During the day, he’d find an empty practice room to run through his lines again and again, and then pore over theatre reference textbooks and websites so late into the night that Banri frequently had to yell at him to turn off the light and go to sleep. He wasn’t surprised about Hyodo tackling the challenge with the same bullheaded, single-minded determination he used for everything, but something about this particular role was different. Banri hasn’t seen him this motivated since Fallen Blood - since his desperation to prove himself bled into his every thought and action.

“Why’re you tryin’ so hard?” he blurts out. “Tsuzuru told me that you’re the one who asked him to write in a female character for you, and I know you’ve been wantin’ to crossdress for a long while, but why is this so important to you? Why’re you actin’ like you have to carry the whole play by yourself? Is it ‘cause you’re the lead role again?”

“No, s’ not…” Hyodo pauses. “There’s another reason.”

Banri raises an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”

It comes out more aggressive than he intends. Hyodo’s face darkens immediately and Banri hurries to clarify, “Just so you know, I ain’t askin’ as a way to make fun of you, m’ serious. I might've had some, uh, minor reservations about this whole thing at first -”

“You laughed your head off for ten minutes,” Hyodo says dryly, “and when you finally realized Director and Tsuzuru-san weren't joking, you spent the next week trying to convince them what a bad idea it was and how it would ruin not only the play, but Autumn Troupe's reputation as a whole.”

“Oi, I really thought it was a joke at first," Banri says defensively. "And you tried to punch me in the face after that, so I'm not the only one in the wrong here.”

“I only tried to punch you ‘cause you wouldn't shut up about the matter even after practice was over.”

“That doesn't make it any better! ‘Sides, I came around to the idea eventually. So stop changin’ the subject and answer the damn question, Hyodo. Why are you so obsessed with crossdressin’ for this play?”

Hyodo's silent for so long that Banri's beginning to think he's just going to ignore him. Which is - fine. Really. He supposes it’s not his business if Hyodo doesn't want to tell him, and he's kind of surprised he hasn't already told him to fuck off considering how badly it went the first time they had this conversation, when he finally realized Hyodo was serious about crossdressing in their play and Hyodo tried to break his nose before he could share this revelation.

It’s just that since their relationship from rivals to whatever the fuck they are now, he may have been hoping that Hyodo would trust him a little more. As Autumn Troupe’s leader, maybe it’s enough for him to know that Hyodo is satisfied with his own acting and the performance he’ll deliver on stage. As Settsu Banri, it’s not enough. He wants to know what’s driving Hyodo to this extent. He wants to know what higher ideal he’s pursuing through this role, and even if he doesn’t understand it, he’ll support him if he asks.

Finally, Hyodo lets out a long, slow exhale and drops down in the nearest chair. “If I hear your stupid fox laugh at any point, I will kill you,” he warns.

“C’mon, d’you really think I’d do that?”

Hyodo fixes him with an expressionless stare.

Banri holds up both hands. “Fine. I promise I won’t laugh. Happy?”

There’s still a hint of doubt in Hyodo’s expression, but he seems resigned to the fact that Banri isn’t letting up on the subject any time soon. “I didn’t mean to make it seem like I was shuttin’ everyone out,” he starts. “I know the whole troupe’s there to help me if I need ‘em. But for this role, I needed to work it out on my own. I needed to prove I could do it.”

His fingers twist in the fabric of his kimono. “I always play the same type of roles. Delinquents, thugs, gangsters...it’s been my image ever since I joined Mankai Company. S’ not that I ain’t proud of it - it makes me happy that our fans enjoy me in those roles, and I’ve done them so many times that I’m becomin’ confident in my ability to perform them well. But that’s the thing - I’ve gotten complacent. If I want to continue takin’ acting seriously, I won’t always have the luxury of gettin’ roles perfectly tailored to me. I need to expand the kind of characters I can perform, else I’ll fall behind the rest of you when I already started in last place to begin with. I need to do better.”

“I haven’t forgotten what you said, back when I performed as Blood.” Hyodo throws him a quick glance that’s almost nervous. “About stickin’ to those kinds of roles because of the way I can uniquely bring them to life on stage. I know that’s my strength as an actor. But I can’t believe - I refuse to believe - that it’s my _only_ strength. There has to be other roles I can empathize with, even if on the surface I’ve got nothin’ in common with them. And even if I can’t, I think I’ve grown enough as an actor since then to be able to pull ‘em off well enough. That’s why I wanted to crossdress this time ‘round - I wanted a role that’s the complete opposite of my usual image. This may be selfish of me, and I know I’m inconveniencin’ everyone in Autumn Troupe, but…” He looks down, hands clenching into fists. “It’s a path I need to take for the actor Hyodo Juza to deserve to stand on the same stage as everyone else. M’ sorr -”

“If you apologize to me, I’m gonna kick you and let you explain to Yuki why there’s a footprint stain on your kimono,” Banri bites out. “You don’t - you’re the lead actor. Every lead actor’s allowed to make a selfish request, no matter what my personal opinion ‘bout it is.” He scratches his forehead, deliberating over exactly how honest he should let himself be in return. “Man, I really should’ve seen this coming.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“In hindsight, only a daikon would’ve thought to turn crossdressin’ for a play into some sorta acting exercise straight outta a course for beginners.”

“Hah?” In a flash, Hyodo’s back to scowling at him. Somehow, the familiar expression is almost comforting compared to the despondent shame he’d been wearing before. “Settsu, the fuck are you tryna say -”

“You think I don’t remember what happened the last time you insisted on playin’ a character with a personality completely different from yours?” Banri demands. “You’re just as stubborn now as you were then, and that includes how much of a frantically hardworking idiot you are. If you’d really _gotten complacent,_ I would’ve kicked your ass and surpassed you a long time ago, idiot.”

“...Even if that’s true, I still need to be better. I can’t -”

“Let yourself fall behind us,” he guesses. “You seriously think that?”

Hyodo stares at him like he isn’t sure whether he should be confused or offended. “What?”

“We’re Autumn Troupe for a reason - we’re a _team._ If someone’s havin’ trouble, the rest of us help ’em. You don’t need to prove anythin’, or show us that you have the right to stand on the same stage as us. We already know how hard you work - how much passion you bring to every role, how you make your characters’ worst flaws and best traits shine in a way no one else can hope to replicate. It doesn’t fucking matter anymore that you might’ve delivered the worst audition in Mankai’s history. That version of you doesn’t exist anymore because you -” he jabs Hyodo in the chest with a finger - “worked your ass off in every single play we’ve done. Do you think we only keep your ugly mug around ‘cause it’s suited for delinquent roles? We value you for your skill at acting! We’ve all had a front row seat to the countless trials you’ve gone through to become the actor you are today!”

His hand moves up, grabbing a fistful of Hyodo’s kimono. “So this crossdressin’ role? Sure, you can call it proof of your growth or whatever. If it’s somethin’ you feel you gotta do to be considered a serious actor, fine. But it ain’t somethin’ you should feel you have to do to validate your place here. We already know you can play any role you get. We’ve seen you chip away at whatever difficulties you run into, until you can act it out the way you imagine it in your mind. Just ‘cause the results of your progress ain’t as fast or obvious as everyone else’s doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

Hyodo’s eyes are wide, looking at him like he’s suddenly bludgeoned him over the head with a baseball bat. Banri disentangles his fingers from his costume, taking a step back as the embarrassment from his tirade finally sinks in. Shit. He didn’t mean to go that far. What the fuck was he thinking?

He only meant to reassure him that no one thought less of him for the roles he performed. It’s common knowledge to everyone except Hyodo that he’s by far his own worst critic, despite being the one who inspired the rest of Autumn Troupe and kickstarted their own passion for acting. And he’ll never say it out loud, since it’s obvious Hyodo’s never realized it, but he’s the one who changed his entire worldview - who lit a fire under Banri’s skin like nothing else before. Hearing the one person who caused the tectonic shift in his life talk about himself like he's not worth anyone's time, much less Banri's, must’ve pissed him off so badly that he forgot there was an unspoken limit to how much sincerity he can spew out at one time.

The silence between them stretches on. Banri can’t look Hyodo in the face. “Well?” he snaps at the wall over Hyodo’s head. “Are you just gonna sit there -”

“Thanks.”

“- and...what?”

Hyodo doesn’t seem like he’s keen on making eye contact, either. “You were...tryna encourage me, right?”

“That wasn’t encouragement!” Banri argues, seizing the chance to attempt some damage control. “ I just told you that you’ve been wastin’ your time worrying ‘bout stupid shit!”

“Only ‘cause you said I was good enough already.” The corner of Hyodo’s mouth curls up. “That you know I can play any role. You used to say that I’d never be fit for crossdressin’, but -”

Banri can already tell that Hyodo’s never going to let him live this down. “Yeah, fine, I admitted you improved a lot and all that, you don’t need to repeat everythin’ back to me. And don’t go getting a big head just ‘cause I praised you a bit. I’m waitin’ to see a full runthrough of the play before passin’ judgment, and I better see every ounce of all that practice and effort in your performance.”

“You will.” There’s a self-assurance to Hyodo’s voice that he hasn’t heard since before their play preparations began, and when Banri finally dares to meet Hyodo’s eyes, he finds them shining. "You'll see."

“Well, good.” Banri clears his throat. Fuck, now he's got the opposite problem - he can't tear his eyes away from him. The stress lines that were permanently etched between Hyodo's eyebrows for the past month have melted away, leaving his expression relaxed and open. Coupled with Azami's stellar makeup job which softened the sharp angles of his face and accentuated his eyes, cheeks, and lips, the transformation is startling. It’s a surprisingly good look on him, and even though Banri highly doubts it’ll be a flawless execution on stage since it’s his first time ever crossdressing, he can admit to himself that Hyodo is kind of attractive like this. His fans will go nuts when they see him.

The thought sends a brief pang of jealousy coursing through him. It's ridiculous, considering the whole point of Hyodo taking on a female role and wearing the kimono was to show off his acting capabilities to as many people as possible, but there's a small part of Banri that doesn't want anyone else to see this pretty, delicate side of Hyodo. That wants to keep this version of him to himself.

“Settsu?”

Banri jerks his gaze back up to meet Hyodo’s. “What?”

“...You were starin’ at me.”

“Aaah? Who’d want to stare at _you_?”

Hyodo leans in, grasping Banri’s collar and dragging him in closer. “Be honest,” he says in a low voice, sounding amused. “Maybe you actually like it when I’m dressed like this. Does it turn you on?”

Banri sputters, both from the question and from the absolute _nerve_ of Hyodo to use his own words against him. “You fucker - !”

He’s cut off by Hyodo reeling him in the last few inches and kissing him.

The first time they did this, Hyodo was terrible at it and Banri made sure to remind him of that fact at least three times a day. For some reason, instead of breaking up with him on the spot, Hyodo took it as a personal challenge and over time, improved at kissing to the point where Banri isn’t even mad that he can’t make fun of him for it anymore. All that time spent ‘practicing’ whenever they both had free time in their locked dorm room is paying off now - Hyodo’s free hand slides smoothly through his hair to cup the back of his head, holding him steady as he deepens the kiss. It's an awkward position but Banri makes the best of it, bracing one hand against the counter behind Hyodo and gripping his shoulder tightly with the other.

Hyodo's teeth bump against his upper lip, and Banri is incensed to realize the bastard is grinning into the kiss, no doubt still laughing at him for losing his composure earlier. Well, two can play at that game, he thinks viciously, and surges into Hyodo’s personal space with enough force to knock him off his chair. There’s a tangle of arms, legs, and silk as they both go down, Hyodo’s head smacking against the wall and Banri landing on top of his legs. Hyodo winces, rubbing the back of his head and opening his mouth to rebuke him, but this time he’s the one interrupted by Banri pressing him back into the wall and crushing their mouths together.

“The fuck, Settsu?” Hyodo gasps out when they part for air. “If this kimono rips, y’know Yuki’s gonna kill us both.”

“Mm, yeah, but…” Banri surveys him, contemplates the pros and cons, and throws all the cons out the metaphorical window. “I’ll be careful.”

Understanding dawns in Hyodo’s eyes. “Now? Are you crazy?” he hisses. “You’re the one who yelled at me earlier for delayin’ the rehearsal!”

“And _you’re_ the one who initiated a makeout session anyway!”

Hyodo’s face flames red. “I didn’t mean - I was just gonna kiss you once!”

“Really?” Banri shoves his knee in between Hyodo’s thighs, smirking when he feels Hyodo’s growing hardness underneath his kimono. “Sure feels like you’re interested in doin’ more than just kissing.”

Hyodo bites his lip. “We shouldn’t.”

“It’ll be quick.”

He dips his head to mouth at his neck, and he can feel the exact moment Hyodo’s resolve breaks as he moans. The sound reverberates through Banri like a plucked guitar string and he hums in approval, licking a stripe up his neck. The urge to bite down is very, very strong, but even his current irrational thinking recognizes that it’d be a bad idea - it's unprofessional, for one, considering how soon they’ll be up on stage, and if the others saw a glaring hickey on Hyodo's throat, they'd both be dead. Even if Azami's magic brush could cover it up, they'd still have to sit through the director and Sakyo's subsequent lectures, plus face judgment from everyone else.

It would also reveal their relationship to the whole company, which they haven't done by silent mutual agreement. Banri doesn’t even want to think about what their reactions would be, not when he’s barely wrapped his head around the situation himself.

He fumbles with the obi he’d tied so carefully, trying to yank it loose and cursing his past self for making it so tight. Giving up, he grabs the hem of Hyodo’s kimono and hikes it up to his waist, wasting no time in palming him over his underwear. Hyodo shudders against him, breath hot in Banri's ear, and Banri is suddenly very aware of his own dick straining against the confines of his pants.

Biting back a groan, he reaches out to yank down Hyodo’s underwear for better access but Hyodo stops him, his hand clutching onto his wrist. “Wait,” he rasps. “I hear someone.”

“Aah? That’s impossible,” says Banri, but he cocks his head to the side to listen for himself. At first, the only thing he can hear is his own unsteady breathing. Then he catches it - the steady pace of footsteps approaching the dressing room.

He and Hyodo exchange a look of wordless horror for one eternal second before they’re scrambling to their feet. Hyodo frantically pushes his kimono back down his legs, flattening the creases in the fabric, and Banri spins him around to re-tie his obi as tightly as it was before. Damn it, if only they didn’t lose their heads and remembered to lock the door. That would’ve bought them at least ten extra seconds, but it’s pointless to regret it now. He can only hope that whoever’s coming will buy the story Banri’s rapidly concocting in his head to cover what nearly happened.

He finishes off the knot and springs away from Hyodo milliseconds before Sakyo strides into the dressing room.

“Settsu, you left to retrieve Hyodo _half an hour_ ago, what’s taking you two so long -” He stills in the doorway, taking in the sight of Hyodo’s smudged lipstick and blush, the hairpin sitting askew in his hair, and the bare shoulder they’d somehow both missed while trying to make sure Hyodo wasn’t standing in the middle of the room half naked. Banri's just grateful both of them aren’t visibly hard anymore, because the thought of trying to explain that away to Sakyo, of all people, makes him want to disappear through the floor. “The hell happened here?”

“We had a fight,” says Banri, the lie rolling easily off his tongue. “I was helpin’ him to put on his kimono and he got mad just ‘cause I said he looked ugly as a woman. Can you believe how ungrateful he is?”

He glances over his shoulder, mouthing ‘Play along!’, and Hyodo gives him a tiny nod back.

“Then I said his face looked uglier.” Hyodo’s never been good at lying, but his etude instincts must’ve kicked in because the line is delivered effortlessly. “He punched me after that.”

Banri rolls his eyes. “That’s ‘cause I figured a good punch might’ve knocked some sense into that empty brain of yours, but it’s plainly obvious that didn’t work.”

“Tch. Only a one-length would think violence can solve anything.”

“What does my hairstyle have to do with this?! Besides, I don’t want to hear that from _you_ when you also punched me right back!”

“At least I didn’t -”

“Both of you, shut up!” Sakyo’s eyes hone in on them like lasers, and for a moment Banri’s sure that he’s seen right through them. “I don’t want to hear your excuses, and I don’t care whose fault it is. You should both know better than to start a fight when you know the rest of the troupe is waiting for you.”

“Exactly,” mumbles Hyodo, and the glower Banri sends his way isn’t fake this time.

“It’s completely irresponsible! Especially you, Settsu, you’re supposed to set an example as the leader and…”

Banri tunes out Sakyo’s ranting, inching closer to Hyodo and whispering, “Are you tryna say this was my fault?”

“This was your idea in the first place,” Hyodo whispers back, “so yeah, it _was_ your fault.”

“The hell? You kissed me first, asshole!”

“I already told you, that was only supposed to be once! You’re the one who escalated everythin’ and tried to get me off!”

“You’re still the one who started it -”

“Both of you, shut up!” Sakyo roars for the second time, and they flinch back. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re lucky today isn’t the public dress rehearsal. As it is, you’re both still in deep trouble for wasting everyone’s time, and I’ll be deciding what your punishment is after practice. You better get your asses on stage and ready to act in five minutes.”

“Er,” says Banri, eyeing Hyodo’s disheveled state, “it might take longer than that.”

“ _Five minutes,_ ” Sakyo stresses. “Considering you’ve already had more than thirty minutes in this room, I’m being more than generous. And if I find out you guys start fighting again after I leave, whatever your punishment is will be tripled.”

With that final warning, he sweeps out of the dressing room.

Banri waits until he’s certain Sakyo is out of earshot, then rounds on Hyodo. “This wasn’t my fault!”

Hyodo sighs. “Doesn’t matter now.” He steps closer to the mirror, mouth pressing into a frown as he tries to fix the mess Banri made of his hair. “He’s right - rehearsal would’ve been well underway if we didn’t stop to mess around. I shouldn’t have let it go that far.”

His tone, plagued with guilt, grates on Banri’s nerves. Figures. If he’s not blaming Banri for the problem, he’s blaming himself. He doesn’t know if Hyodo is always striving to be some virtuous hero or if he genuinely believes he’s the root of most problems, but either way it’s infuriating. He hates it when Hyodo seizes any opportunity to throw an insult in his face, but he hates it even more when he goes on one of his self-pity spirals and brings himself down instead. He can’t even chime in and agree whenever Hyodo speaks badly about himself, because it’s like kicking down a dog that’s already been hurt enough by the world - complete with the sad puppy eyes.

Not that he can ever tell him that. He’d probably laugh in his face, and all it would accomplish is adding another weapon in Hyodo’s arsenal of taunts to mock him with.

“Whatever. I still think you’re the one who started it,” says Banri, because he refuses to let Hyodo have the last word, “but...I didn’t help by encouragin’ you. And, er, as Autumn Troupe’s leader, I suppose it’s my responsibility to help you. Again. Whaddya need me to do?”

Hyodo scrutinizes himself in the mirror. “You can fix my makeup, since you’re the one who ruined it. Don’t you dare do a shitty job. And make it quick, we’ve only got five minutes.”

Banri ignores the implication that he’s ever done a ‘shitty job’ at anything in his life. “C’mon, what’s the worst that old man can do if we don't get there on time?”

“...We might be stuck with bathroom cleaning duties for three months again.”

“Tch.” Incidentally, that time was _also_ Hyodo’s fault, but Banri graciously doesn’t bring it up. He plucks Azami's makeup kit off the counter and removes the lipstick tube, raising his eyebrows. "Well? Hurry up and sit down. You're the one who wanted this to be quick, so you're not allowed to complain.”

Hyodo sits obediently, but not before sending him a look that suggests there's nothing he would enjoy more right now than to strangle him. Banri almost can’t believe he’s the same guy who willingly made out with him just a few minutes ago. Almost.

The thing is, they’ve been incompatible since the first day they met. Sure, they no longer try to kill each other on a daily basis, but they still fight all the time, still constantly poke at each other’s weaknesses like little kids pestering a wild snake to see how much it can take before it bites. By all accounts, their current relationship, as unorthodox as it is, shouldn’t have lasted as long as it has. Yet somehow, it’s worked out. It’s strange, and terrifying, and sometimes Banri can’t figure out what the heck Hyodo sees in him, but the adrenaline rush he gets when he wakes up with Hyodo’s fingers tangled between his own is too addicting for him to question it.

And as Banri leans in and cups Hyodo’s cheek, tracing a precise red line over his lips and smiling to himself when Hyodo unconsciously leans into his touch, he can’t help thinking that he wouldn't trade what they have in this moment for anything.


End file.
